


What's Important

by mystery_deer



Series: The Holmes Brothers Need Help [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, All abusive relationships are from the holmes parents!, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Processing Trauma, THIS HOUSE IS A FUCKING NIGHTMARE, everyone else is in healthy relationships, everyone is friends (especially greg and john)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft's mother dies.They attend her funeral.They don't mourn.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Holmes Brothers Need Help [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679989
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	1. First Blood

Church bells and choir music echoed throughout the old and empty halls of the house, loud and clear even indoors.

Mother had left specific instructions, all the doors and windows were to be open, curtains tucked away.  
“I will not go quietly under cover of night.” She’d written and it was so much like her that Mycroft had smiled during the reading of the will.

Sherlock had retreated indoors the moment he’d arrived and the only reason Mycroft had known he’d come at all was by catching a glance of him stalking through the hallway, John close behind him, reassuring one of the maids that they were alright.

_“I can’t believe your family hired a choir.” Gregory had said on the drive up. The Holmes estate was on a hill climbing into the mountains, trees shrouding the grounds and his boyfriend had insisted that they were going to get murdered._

_“This is exactly where people dump bodies. I’ve seen it, don’t deny it.”_

_“Any errant corpses not disposed of by the Holmes family would be quickly removed by our body-dumping staff.” Mycroft had joked, staring out the window and it had taken a full minute of silence for Gregory to timidly ask if that was true._

“Yes well, it was mother’s will.” Mycroft explained simply, watching with disinterest as the coffin - solid black except for the tasteful gold trimmings (again, her orders) was lowered into the ground.

__________

Sherlock watched from the window of his old bedroom as John marveled at the space.  
“I can tell this is your room.” He said with quiet humor, running a careful hand over a wall which was full of haphazardly made shadow boxes and landscape portraits and pressed winged insects. 

“Because my name is on the door?”  
“That’s the least ‘you’ thing about it.”

Sherlock had no idea what made him Him to John or anyone, despite his profession as a detective.  
Being back bought no fond memories bobbing to the surface of his mind, only dredged up old ones he’d buried for a reason.

He lit a laced cigarette and blew the smoke out the window, watching the fog come in from over the trees and ignoring his brother’s eyes on him.

“What was your mom like?” John asked from behind it, hand on the small of his companion’s back. John’s hands were big and heavy, grounding and clean. Always dry and a touch too cold. 

His mother was…

He remembered in a rush the heat of tears and breath against his face as he scream-sobbed into his pillow, trying not to hear his mother and Mycroft fight in the other room. Trying not to hear his mother shouting _What did I tell you!? What did I tell you, can’t control- I’ll give you something to-_ and Mycroft’s _NoNoNoMummy I promise - I’m sorry-_

He blinked slowly in the present, feeling the cool breeze cup his face.  
“A saint.” He muttered.

__________

Mycroft roamed around the grounds, extending his hands to anyone he knew would take them gratefully.

He’d practiced how to smile in the mirror. _Not too wide, that’s ghoulish. It’s a funeral. Not too small either, that’s a smirk...perfect._ An expression that spoke of dignity and restraint, concealed sadness. 

He hadn’t been sad.  
Sherlock had written him a letter in which he related some advice of Watson’s;

_“You might feel numb for a while, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or some sort of unfeeling thing you understand. It’s normal, natural. It may creep in or rush up on you all at once some quiet day alone after this is all over.”_

Sherlock added;

_“Perhaps when I’m dead I’ll miss her.”_

And tried to cross out the line above it;

_“Maybe when we go back to that house we’ll feel some love creep in.”_

Mycroft didn’t think the house had any love to stir up. He kept his opinion to himself.

“Because he’s my - friend. Dad. My dearest friend in the world, he will _not_ be relegated to the- no. No if Watson isn’t allowed to sit with me then I won’t be sitting with you do you und-”

That was more Sherlock’s area of expertise anyway.

Mycroft’s body was moving before he was aware of it.  
His hands hurt and he squeezed them together to momentarily stifle his want to hit them against something or soothe them with warm water. 

Hot water.

“What seems to be the problem, Sherlock?” He asked, sharper than he’d meant it. Sherlock whirled around to face him, irate in a way he hadn't seen in years.  
“Dad won’t let Watson-”

“Sherlock has brought a guest. I’ve only told him that dinner with the family will be held in a separate room than dinner with guests and he’s throwing a fit-”

“I am not-!” Their father rubbed his hands against his face and groaned.  
“Mycroft, sort this out. I am very tired and this is very inappropriate. Your mother just DIED!”

Everyone within earshot (which was anyone on the estate’s grounds with how loud father’s voice could get) quieted just a fraction. They still spoke, moved, looked away. But they were listening. 

Father looked...worse.  
He looked old.

“Yes.” Mycroft said softly, nodding and gently leading his father into the care of a maid who’d rushed out to attend to him. 

“Yes, I’ll take care of it.”


	2. Portrait of a Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John roam the house and come upon a series of portraits

Greg sighed, taking a swig of whatever drink Mycroft had put in his hand. 

“How do we always get stuck like this at Holmes functions?” He asked, gesturing to their situation. Their situation being, walking around aimlessly and waiting for their respective Holmes’ to find and drag them away.

John laughed, covering his mouth so as not to spit cake anywhere. They had found themselves in a hallway that seemed to be entirely dedicated to portraits and plaques and were going through trying to find the most ridiculous names. The Holmes’ boasted a wide range of characters from Mary to Sherrinford to If-Christ-Had-Not-Died-For-Thee-Thou-Hadst-Been-Damned. That one had sent Greg into hysterics.

“No idea.” John admitted. “But if he leaves without me again he promised to let me publish that story with the one-legged groundskeeper so I’m not losing any sleep.”

They continued in amiable silence for a bit until they reached the back end of the hallway and paused to gaze up at a portrait hung just above the arch leading to the exit.

It was much more recent than the others but painted in the same style and pictured Mr. and Mrs. Holmes looking dourly into the camera with Mycroft standing attentively between them. 

Greg could picture him deftly squashing arguments and deflecting snippy remarks between his parents all while making sure Sherlock, who was at that in-between stage of growth where you weren’t a toddler but weren’t quite a child yet, didn’t cry or fuss.

John could picture Sherlock, so young but so brilliant, so sensitive, on the verge of bursting into something. Tears or screaming he wasn’t sure. His scrunched up face and reddened cheeks spoke to either.

They both turned to look at the singular portraits actually on the wall.  
Everyone was there but Sherlock, the empty space stark. 

A spark of anger flared up in John.  
“They didn’t even try to cover it up.” He scoffed, staring at the wallpaper. He wondered why they'd come at all.

Mycroft’s portrait was cold. He was pictured in the same dark brown room the family portrait had been taken in, his grey eyes sharp and captivating even in painted form. His expression was grave, not even a hint of a smile. It looked odd. To be so somber so young. The only hint of color was an intricate vase on a table near him and the flowers coming out of it, icy blue.

“...Did Sherlock tell you anything about his ma?” Greg asked, leaning close to the portrait but hesitant to touch it. The entire hall felt like a museum or a gallery. He couldn't imagine growing up here.

John snorted. “Just that he hated her. Fainted when he’d heard she’d died and...he’s been feeling a bit under the weather lately, not a lot of interest in anything.” He paused, collecting himself. Sherlock would be fine.  
“...he said she was ‘a saint’ but we know that’s not true, don’t even know why he bothered. You?”

Greg shrugged. “Mycroft didn’t say anything about her at all. I just know she died, they weren’t on speaking terms and…” He hesitated. “This doesn’t leave here, right?”

John nodded, face hardening. “I give you my word.” 

Greg smirked. “Military man to the end eh? Half expected you to salute me.”

“If I kick your arse I can’t guarantee it won’t leave this hallway.” Greg held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay okay! Mycroft he...had a bit of a freakout?” Greg didn’t quite know what to call it. He hadn’t ever seen him like that before, all glassy-eyed and shut down. 

John perked up, eager to help. “What do you mean, what happened?”

“Well, uh...I don’t know. He was uh..trying to bathe in scalding water?” He remembered Mycroft in the bathtub, fully dressed, the mirror completely fogged. Even being near the water he’d felt the heat...he couldn’t imagine if he’d actually _touched_ it. 

“And then he uh kind of just sat there all curled up and wouldn’t talk for hours. He seemed fine after but I dunno if that’s Mycroft-fine or real-fine.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell John about the crying or the nightmares. That felt too private to share and he could imagine Mycroft dying on the spot the moment the words left his mouth.

“Hmm.” John said. “Let me mull it over.”  
Greg barked out a short laugh. “Yeah, you do that.” He said, slinging an arm around his friend’s shoulder. 

They both spared a glance at the woman behind their partners’ woes.

She was painted sitting slumped over a table, eyeing the viewer in annoyance. It looked as if she’d been interrupted in the middle of a restful nap or deep in thought and it killed John how much she looked like Sherlock. She was dressed every bit the socialite; dark hair pinned to stay and drape just so, hat half-shadowing her face, dress a cloudy pale blue. 

She looked beautiful.  
John felt like he was betraying Sherlock by thinking it, by not being able to see and hate her right away, not being able to find an evil trapped in the portrait.

_“Isolde Holmes; Mother. Wife. Beloved.”_ Read her plaque. Someone had etched _‘Scientist’_ into it by hand. 

The two men stared at her for another few seconds before Greg loudly yawned and flipped the picture off.  
“Fuck you for making Myc cry.” He declared, walking off into a different room.

John watched after him, shocked. He looked back at the painting. At the woman who looked so much like Sherlock but also so…

“Oh, there you two are!” Mycroft called from the other end of the hallway. Greg rushed back with a grin on his face as he waved. John smiled, egged on by his friend’s enthusiasm and glad to be leaving the hall.

“It’s dinner time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some events of my previous fic 'Chiromancy' are discussed here. You don't need to read 'Chiromancy' to understand this story but if you'd like to;  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124547/chapters/50269553


	3. What's It About?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers argue.

Sherlock watched Mycroft lead Lestrade and John away from the landing that connected to his father’s office.

It felt a bit juvenile, breaking in and smoking. Hiding to avoid guests and dinner and _dad._

He reminded himself that he would never have done anything close to this as a juvenile. The thought was foreign in his mind but his heart was beating faster than it did during most investigations. Danger flashed behind his lids every time he closed his eyes. 

No. He wasn't in any danger. Dad was downstairs and more to the point he was an adult, what could he even do to him? (Anything. Everything.)

He sighed and his breath stuttered as he remembered his previous conversation with Mycroft. Being dragged inside and away from prying eyes, his brother hissing so as not to be heard.

“Sherlock you’re acting like a child.”

“Because I want John to sit with me at the table?” He asked, blood still boiling. 

“Because you refuse to see that this isn’t about that.”

Sherlock stopped, digging his heels into the ground. His brother stopped and turned to look at him with an impatient frown. They both knew he could very well overpower him, the detective weighed barely anything. 

He waited.  
Sherlock spoke, voice now equally low. “Well what’s it about Mycroft?”  
“It’s a-”

“You always know everything don’t you? You can _always_ put _everything_ else first. You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think that _you’re_ the one being childish. ‘Yes yes right away father! Anything you say father!’ that is _classic_ you.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft warned but Sherlock was gone, couldn’t hear anything through the rage that was swirling around him, choking him. He’d begun moving forward and Mycroft moving back until they were in Sherlock’s childhood bedroom. 

“Maybe if you stopped trying to do _everything_ to make dad happy and started trying to take up even a _little_ bit of space you’d be able to realize-”

_“Sherlock!”_

The room had stilled as Mycroft trembled, head in his hands. Sherlock’s heart dropped, anger gone immediately. He hadn’t meant to...he wasn’t angry with Mycroft. 

So why had he…?

“Sherlock just...stop.” Mycroft asked softly, teetering close to pleading. “Just...stop, for a moment.”

“...Okay.”  
Mycroft didn’t move. Sherlock fought against the childish urge to pull his hands away, to check that he was still breathing. 

He remembered finding Mycroft in the bathroom, curled up on himself and crying without noise just tears coming from his unseeing eyes and he remembered sobbing loud enough for the both of them as he tried to bring his brother back to life-

He pulled at his own hair until the pain chased the memory away.

“...I’m sorry.” He said, taking a step closer. When Mycroft didn’t respond he moved to hug him, only to have his brother straighten and walk swiftly past him to the door. 

“I know you are, I apologize. I didn’t mean to yell I just...you tire me sometimes.” They stayed like that for a moment. Backs facing one another, stewing in hurt. 

“I’m going to see where the others have gone. When you’re ready you can join us for dinner.” Mycroft finally declared, closing the door. 

Sherlock had immediately climbed out the window onto the roof, carefully making his way (It had been a lot less narrow when he’d been a child, hadn’t it?) to the window of father’s study and slipped inside.

He had never been allowed in as a child. Only Mycroft.

Everything felt like it was Only Mycroft.  
He felt…

-and remembering that it was all his fault his brother had been punished he’d been punished because of him because he hadn’t listened and been quiet and then mummy was at the door screaming WHY CAN’T YOU KEEP HIM QUIET WHY CAN’T YOU-

Hand in his hair. Pain. The memory was gone.

It was better to feel nothing after all.  
_________________________

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, glancing around as Mycroft led the party towards the dining room.  
"Oh, sulking in his room I imagine." Mycroft said, showing them to their seats. "We had a bit of a disagreement and he's one to take these things to heart."  
Before John could reply or ask more of him the man was gone and a bell was being sounded.

Dinner had begun.


	4. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.  
> Mycroft doesn't eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicide ideation (brief one line moment), Discussions of abuse and defending abuser (Mycroft justifying the abuse to himself)

Mycroft sat beside an empty seat where Sherlock’s place card was set.  
“Will he not be joining us?” Asked father, placing a napkin in his lap.

“No, unfortunately I don’t believe he will.” Mycroft said, smiling apologetically.  
“He wasn’t feeling well. I believe he’s gone to have a rest.”

Father made a disgruntled noise and began to eat.

Mycroft ran over a list in his head.  
Everything was going according to plan, everyone looked just a smidge too jovial for a funeral. Everyone was exactly where they should be.

Everyone?  
He shouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock.

Mycroft ran over the list in his head.  
He shouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock.  
He shouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock.

He could see his mother’s eyes glaring across from the table, feel her hands resting on his shoulders just a brush too close to his neck to keep from shivering at her touch. He could hear her voice hissing in his ear, surrounding him. 

_“You shouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock.”_  
And  
_“How dare you yell at Sherlock?”_ in tandem.

The hands and voice and images pushed him down into a memory of when he was small and his mother was holding him, rocking him against her chest in that accursed bathroom. Steam concealed her face and his hands throbbed with pain as he longed to cool them, to press them against her perpetually cold face or the hardwood outside the room but she held him tightly and he didn’t dare make a move to leave.

When she hummed it filled the space completely. She was a one woman choir and Mycroft could often hear her coming long before she was seen.

She was a ghost in the house. A shut-in who was always there but never _there_ and he could remember being even younger than he was then and being carried in her arms. Like he was then except for the aching and the heat and the tears he could feel drying to salt on his face.

“Sherlock isn’t like you and me.” She said, or had said. She was holding Sherlock now, a baby him that screamed and fussed in time with her own moods or so she said. Said it with such a hushed mysticism that Mycroft had believed it without question, nodding in time to her own sleepless head shakes. 

“Sherlock...feels.” She told him or tells him. “Like your father.” And the house shook with that man’s rage. His moods were so powerful he could raze the world in the seconds. He was a magician, building you up and knocking you down to nothing as you thanked him for noticing you at all. 

In comparison his mother was a saint. Her anger was always just. Always linked to something he’d done or would do. 

It was just.  
It was just.  
It was just fine.

“Do I yell at your father when he’s being unfair?” She’d asked him one day after he’d protested a punishment. Sherlock had taken the book Mycroft was reading and had to be chased through the house to retrieve it.

“No, but-”

“When you grow up you will encounter so many minds like your father’s and Sherlock’s.” She continued, facing away from him as she spoke which wasn’t fair either because when Mycroft didn’t look her in the eyes she grabbed his chin and made him stare into them, would blink at the same time as him so it seemed she was always watching.

“Are you going to whine about how unfair they are to them? They won’t care, Mycroft. They don’t care about people like us.”

He remembered the hundreds of times Sherlock had misbehaved and hated him for it. Hated him for the tears and screaming and _nonononomummy ‘msorry it’s my fault it’s my fault don’t punish mycie_ and wished he could scream at his reddened face _IF YOU’RE SORRY THEN WHY DON’T YOU ACT BETTER?_

“You need to learn how to trick them, how to control them, how to say things and make them think they said it. He- _They_ only listen to their own ideas. If you want to read a book and Sherlock takes it then pretend to read another one or ignore him until he tires of bothering you.”

He had known then that he was to be a ghost as well. That he was a shade less than human. He would grow up to haunt someplace, to haunt someone. To leak into them until their brain thought his thoughts and their tongue formed his words.  
He would grow up to see through walls and hear things across rooms and he would float just above his body like he’d started to do during punishments.

He wondered if his mother had ever gotten punished like this.  
He wondered if he’d have children and determined that if he did he would hold their hands under cold water. That way they would go numb after a while.

Sometimes he thought he’d died.  
Sometimes he wanted to.  
He wanted to go somewhere no one spoke to him or looked at him or acknowledged his existence in any way.  
He wanted to go be a ghost somewhere empty.

But that was his own weakness talking.  
His mother was helping him.  
It wasn’t her fault.  
It wasn’t his father’s.  
It wasn’t Sherlock’s.  
It was just his.  
It was just.  
It was just.  
It was just.

“Mycroft?” Asked his father, snapping him back into place.  
Mycroft smiled in response, tilting his head slightly to signal he’d heard.

“Ah, good. I was just saying that Sherlock has always been a bit of a...that boy’s always had a flare for the dramatic.” Mycroft nodded, unsure of what to say but sure that his father never disliked agreement.

“I had thought he’d have grown out of it by now but apparently not.”

Sherlock had always been too sensitive for their father no matter how hard Mycroft tried to instruct him. He had no poker face. When father yelled Sherlock’s face contorted and reddened as he tried not to yell back or burst into tears. When father praised him his face shone with pride.  
Mycroft took everything cooly. 

Sherlock had apologized.  
Had always apologized.  
Had always rushed to his side the moment he was able, crying and wailing.  
And it always twisted his guts, that overwhelming cracked innocence. That hate-love in his own absolutely shattered heart that told him to hate Sherlock for being so weak and love him for caring so much and hate him for doing this to him and love him for not wanting to have done it and hate him for doing it anyway and love him for love’s sake.

“No, apparently not.”

_“Maybe if you stopped trying to do everything to make dad happy and started trying to take up even a little bit of space you’d be able to realize-”_

Realize what? What new revelation was there? That he was not even a ghost? That he was even less than less than human? 

“I mean honestly, what’s with that boy? He-”

“Why didn’t you let Watson sit with him?” 

The question had left him before he could formulate or stop it and the table quieted. Listening but pretending not to. He hated them.

“...It’s not tradition.” His father answered, annoyed but willing to put up with a small bit of questioning. “And it was presumption of him after so long away that we would-”

“You’re the one who pushed him away. You disowned him didn’t you?”  
“Mycroft, settle down.” 

He hated him.

“I will not. How can you sit there pretending to be clueless? How can you treat him so badly all our lives and and and expect us to _adore_ you? What have you done to deserve adoration?”

“Mycroft.”

“I’m not finished!”  
_“Yes you are!”_

The entire table was silent now, openly staring at the quarrel. Mycroft felt his stomach lurch and his hands ache. He’d done something massively wrong.

“I…” He saw himself in the reflection of his empty dinner plate. His father hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t eating. No one had. 

Maybe this is what Sherlock wanted him to realize.  
That no one would care if he ate or not as long as he was feeding them.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me.” He left the table and practically ran into the hall, rushing past Gregory who was yelling something at John.

“John wait-!”  
“I’m going to find Sherlock, he’s alone right now and he shouldn’t- Mycroft! Mycroft where’s Sherlock?”

He didn’t stop, dodging John’s attempts to catch up to him and racing off into the recesses of the large house where he knew it would be too much trouble to catch him. That he’d choose to go after Sherlock instead.

He was proven right as John cursed and made a u-turn, running up the stairs. He watched for a moment as Gregory looked between the two diverging paths. John or Mycroft? John or Mycroft? Sherlock or Mycroft?

Mycroft ducked into a room without waiting to find out which one he chose.  
He couldn’t handle it if he saw Gregory make his way up those stairs.

He could pretend, he thought as he moved from room to room, that Gregory had simply not been able to find him. That he was searching for him but had gotten lost in the expanse of the Holmes estate.

Could pretend that he hadn’t abandoned him.  
No, that wasn’t fair. He thought, digging his nails into his palms as he slipped outside and began walking to the treeline. Sherlock would always be more important. 

Sherlock wasn’t a ghost.  
Sherlock took up space and wouldn’t relinquish it.  
Sherlock-

_“Mycroft!”_ He froze as Gregory’s voice cut through the air and hid behind a tree. It was a familiar view. He’d spent many hours here. The base of the tree was guarded by a large bush and it was tucked behind two other large ones, just a bit too far into the woods that surrounded the estate for anyone looking for him to bother. 

_“Mycroft!”_ He had probably come looking for him out of a sense of obligation rather than a want to see him. John had probably convinced him to at least make a show of looking. He’d probably give up after a few minutes and go back inside.

_”Mycroft!”_ He waited the few predicted minutes and when no other calls were made he pulled his knees up to his chest and childishly felt a deep pain in his chest. He was...hurt.  
_Why?_ He asked himself. _You were the one who wanted this. Childish contradiction doesn’t suit you and this IS childish. Saying you want one thing while desperately wanting the opposite. It’s pitiful. Sherlock was right, your mother was right. You will always be nothing. You’ll never take up enough space in anyone’s mind to look for-_

At that moment a head broke through the bushes and Mycroft yelped in surprise and horror, backing up and preparing to run from an animal that had may its way onto the property but was stopped when he was met by a rugged, joyful smile and a familiar laugh.

“I found you!” Gregory exclaimed, crawling the rest of the way through. The bush was ruined.  
“God, didn’t you hear me callin’ you?” He asked, picking branches out of his hair and spitting out a leaf. The bush had been absolutely destroyed.

“...’s okay. If you don’t wanna see anyone I’ll just wait here with y-” He was cut off with a _oomph_ as Mycroft threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around the man he loved so dearly with a quiet strangled wail.

“You found me.” He managed to croak out, trying his best not to cry as Gregory held him tightly, seemingly unbothered.  
“You found me.” He repeated, now unable to stop himself from crying just a bit. Just a bit wouldn’t hurt would it? No one was here to see and Gregory wouldn’t tell. 

“Yeah.” The inspector said and Mycroft could hear the grin in his voice. Could feel the happiness coming off the man in waves and the knowledge that that happiness was for him nearly sent him into hysterics.

“Yeah, I did. I’ll always find you Myc.”


	5. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk, a conclusion is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Self-harm (hair pulling), Memories of abuse

John found Sherlock in his room, looking bemused at his out of breath state.  
“Did something happen?” He asked.  
John furrowed his brow and walked over to the detective, quickly examining him.  
“You’re not hurt?”

Sherlock laughed, bright with delight for the first time since they set out for the house that day and John drank up his happiness like water.  
“No! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I just...well you’ll think me very silly I’m afraid.”  
“You? Never.” They both shared a smile before lapsing into companionable silence.

“I think it was a mistake to come here.” Sherlock admitted, winding the propeller of a toy airplane he had hanging from the ceiling. 

“I came so Mycroft wouldn’t be alone but…” He huffed out a sad laugh. “Perhaps he would have preferred that to my company.”

“Did you two have a fight?” John asked, tapping his foot anxiously. Sherlock seemed...fine. Alive and healthy at least but there was a lethargy to him that was unsettling. 

The house seemed to have that effect on everyone. Despite the large gathering all the halls seemed empty. He could hear people moving and talking through the floorboards, the clink of utensils, an errant string of laughter. 

He remembered being a child and finding those noises comforting. His mom’s laughter and the tail end of one of his father’s war stories lulling him to sleep.

But here they were different. They didn’t comfort him or make him feel safe, full. They only made him feel more undeniably separate. Hearing others only made him feel lonelier.

He couldn’t imagine growing up in such a wretched place.

“...Are these your drawings?” He asked, pointing to pages plastered on the walls. Sherlock turned to look at him and smiled once again, joining him on the bed.

“Yes! A lot of these are from my botany phase, oh these look terrible. It’s difficult to even tell what plants these are - See?” He took one from the wall and turned it over, revealing a rough sketch on the other side.  
“I had to write notes.”

“Did you have neater handwriting as a kid?”  
“Mycroft helped me with some of the spelling.”

“I see.” He paused, waiting to see if Sherlock wanted to change the subject. The man quietly observed several more drawings, laughing at one.

“Here see? Mycroft went back and spelled every other word correctly for me.” He said, looking fondly at the paper. “But I couldn’t read his handwriting since he used script and I got angry with him for ‘scribbling over’ my work.”

John smiled as he pictured a smaller Sherlock looking indignantly at the corrections.  
“...It’s always felt like it was just me and him.”

Sherlock placed the drawings under his pillow and got up to look out the window. He could see two figures in the garden and he watched as they appeared to talk while sitting on the ground.  
“Our mother was wicked and our father was cruel. She would-” He paused, debating how much he should tell. How much he could stand to talk about and how much was his to reveal. John waited.

“...She would hurt him, Mycroft. For anything really but for things I did especially. I don’t know why, they were always so...into one another.” He raised his gaze up towards the sky. There was nothing but trees for miles, in the very distance he knew there was a town. Even further and he knew there was London. 

He’d spent so many nights exactly as he was now. Smaller then, knees on the window or sitting on the sill as he watched the static sky and imagined the world beyond his home. It had all felt terrifyingly inescapable back then. The yelling, the violence, the steam under the bathroom door. 

In London, he’d thought. There would be too much noise to hear anything.  
And that wasn’t exactly true but in London there wasn’t a history of bad memories.   
There wasn’t a wall of people watching him and willing him to fall in line.

His brother had apparently felt the same way, surrounding himself with silence the moment he could.

“It was like they had their own secret world I wasn’t a part of. With its own rules that I could never understand I-” He willed himself not to look back at John, to keep going. If he stopped for too long he might not be able to start again.

“I asked her to stop so many times. It made me so afraid to do _anything_ for fear that she’d catch any false move and come gliding down to whisk my brother away. She was like a demon, that woman. Silently watching and waiting and then her hands would reach from the shadows and pull him away from me, screaming.”

His eyes stung now and the window’s view blurred. Just shapes and colors. 

He remembered one time after she’d grabbed Mycroft and took him to the bathroom, he’d ran as fast as he could to the hall and found his mother’s portrait. He’d screamed and cried and clawed at her image, tearing it to shreds as he heard his brother wailing somewhere above him. He wailed in time with him. _I’m the one who deserves this_ he had thought.  
_I won’t let you suffer alone._

“I could tell he hated me afterwards.” Were the first words he grabbed onto after coming out of that tidal wave memory, gasping for breath.  
“He didn’t say so, tried not to- I know he tried but I could see it in his eyes. I could… _deduce_ it. Why shouldn’t he? I had...it was my fault. It wasn’t _fair_ I know that, but it was my fault. I should have been able to control myself, I should have listened to him I should have-”

He was jerked back into the present as John’s hand cupped his face. He was sitting now with John staring at him with wild, fearful eyes.   
“You’re pulling your hair, love.” He explained softly.  
“Oh.” He was.   
He slowly removed his fingers and took solace in the ache. 

_I won’t let you suffer alone._ He had thought, pulling his hair until it tore on the hallway floor. He’d screamed so loud his father had come out and watched him, just stood over him with a furrowed brow and a deeply disappointed frown. 

But it had worked. He’d looked up at the ceiling and gone to save Mycroft.   
Could he not hear him in the study?  
Could he not hear what was happening?

“My father loved Mycroft because he was like that, like her.” Two scheming shadows whispering to each other, creeping on the walls as father monologued aloud. Two audience members to his one-man show. Now clap, now laugh, now stay silent. 

“He hated me because I was...like him.”  
“No you weren’t.”  
“Yes I was!” Sherlock insisted, hand reaching up to grab at his hair again.

“I had that anger in me.”  
When mother had come down to attend to Sherlock as she always did, she’d smiled softly to see him there. Bloodied, chest heaving, wide-eyed and frantic.  
_“Just like your father…”_ She’d lightly tutted, picking him up and lightly stroking his head, kissing his flushed cheek. 

_Hot blooded._   
The portrait had been replaced the next day.

Mycroft refused to speak to Sherlock for a week, saying softly from the other side of the door that he was ill. To go play by himself for a while. 

When he finally came out he sighed at the state his brother had gotten himself in. Dirty and wild without supervision.   
_I need you_ Everything about him screamed.  
_Don’t leave me_

And wasn’t that what his father cried after arguments? After something shattered, after tempers peaked?  
He could hear him grow soft, gentle for as long as it took to get her back into his arms.   
He could see their silhouettes swaying on the living room wall, temporarily stepping into her world of shadow.

_“I need you.”_ He murmured, kissing her hand as he dipped her.  
_“Don’t leave me!_ He wailed against her breast, coming down from the high of anger and remorseful for a moment, pleading for a millionth second chance.

It had seemed impossible that he would ever be free from that.  
That either of them would be.  
He had clung to Mycroft and worried that the clinging was genetic.  
He had cried and worried that the crying was a secret, selfish ploy.

“Sherlock!” He blinked, eyes clearing.   
John?   
He felt his cheek, it was wet. He’d been crying.  
John.  
John was holding him, squeezing him with all his strength.   
Sherlock made a strangled sound and he let go, immediately moving to face him.

“Thank God!” John cried, worry clear on his face.   
“I thought you were gone!”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, holding each other and occasionally making noise to assert that they were still there. Still alive.

“It was getting disowned that broke the spell.” John was holding his hand now, leaning against the wall with him. Their shadows weren’t full, they weren’t everything. Sherlock squeezed his love’s hand. _This, hold onto this._ He thought.

“Why were you disowned, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
“Oh..a number of things. My continued disobedience, my unnamed but obvious sexuality, my growing interest in detective work. Various other grievances.” 

He ventured into memory slowly this time, deliberately. John squeezed his hand and Sherlock brought him along, guiding him through the maze of his mind.

They were standing in his father’s office, watching the scene. A younger sherlock with a determined eye glared down at his father who sat gravelly behind a stately desk. Neither of them spoke and the tension was thick.

_“I have had enough of you dragging this family’s name through the mud.”_ His father finally said, returning his glare. 

John carefully watched Sherlock’s face for that blank fog that had been cast over it but found only sharp and present pain. 

_“And I’m tired of living in a house with no warmth.”_   
_“I have shown you nothing but kindness. Your mother-”_   
_“Do you really want to talk about my mother?”_

Some eagerness in his voice must have steered the old man away from the topic because he changed the subject.

_“What more could you possibly want for? Have we not clothed you, fed you, educated you - as much as you fought against it? Have we not given you every comfort? Your ingratitude truly knows no bounds! If you continue along this path I would be GLAD to see your greed gone from this house-”_

_“Not a single happy day in this house was because of you.”_ Sherlock fired back, hands balled into fists.

_“Young man I’m not finished-”_

_“No, I’M finished!”_ Sherlock shouted, slamming a fist onto the desk. The vibration caused a paperweight to clatter to the ground. 

_“You.”_ He began, venom dripping from every word. _“Have given me NOTHING, old man.”_

The two stared at each other for a tense moment, neither moving to break. Finally, Sherlock pushed off from the desk and spun around towards the door. His head was high, back straight. He had not lost. 

Far from it.

_“The one thing I’m grateful to this house for.”_ He said loudly, walking down the hall and towards his room, excitement gleaming in his eye and happiness clear in every step.

“Is the opportunity to leave it.” Sherlock finished in the present, smiling with a triumphant sort of sadness. 

He turned to John and his smile grew even as John continued to frown.   
“Let’s take that opportunity, shall we?” He suggested, standing and stretching.   
“Let’s.” John agreed, heading immediately for the door.

As they walked down the halls of the house Sherlock began to sing. It was something in a language John didn’t know but it was strong and proud and he had a feeling that it was good he was singing it.

They left without saying goodbye to anyone, heading to their car.   
Just as they were about to get in and begin the journey home they heard someone call their names. 

“Sherlock!”  
“John!” 

They turned and saw a figure running towards them, wrapping them in a hug before they could brace themselves for impact.  
“You leaving without us!?” Greg asked, setting the two men down as Mycroft quietly walked up beside him.

“Nothing personal Inspector!” Sherlock chirped, any sadness momentarily forgotten in the excitement of the moment.   
“It just wasn’t our scene.” John joked, getting a laugh out of Greg.

“Ours either.” He said, gesturing towards Mycroft who was looking out towards the trees.   
“Let’s all go home together then?” Sherlock suggested as John climbed into the car, starting it to let it warm up.

“Sure, sure. Myc do you wanna follow John and ‘em?”  
“I don’t mind.” The man said emotionlessly, making his way to his own car. 

Sherlock watched the two of them start to leave. He wanted to say something...meaningful. Something that would make this whole trip worth it. Something that told him he was sorry, that he loved him, that he wanted them to be okay.

“Mycroft!” He called.  
Mycroft turned his head and tilted it in curiosity, face impassive.

“...Did they serve that disgusting cranberry sauce again?”  
Everyone paused to look at him and for a moment Sherlock felt his heart sink.

But then Mycroft cracked a smile, and then a soft chuckle, and then a laugh. It wasn’t full-throated or particularly loud. It didn’t bring him to his knees or unsteady him - but it was a laugh. It was a genuine smile after a day of forced politeness.

And that was enough to make his heart soar.


	6. The Blame Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Depictions of abuse, Attempts to justify abuse (by Mycroft to himself)

Mycroft was quiet in the car, wringing his hands and staring straight ahead.  
He’d told Gregory.  
He’d told him and everything was fine. Maybe a little bit...maybe slightly better.

It felt groundbreaking to tell him. Like the earth tore itself apart and underneath it was another identical earth.  
He’d always thought it would end.

Sherlock slept the whole way back. John thought about living there, what it must have been like. He wondered if the Holmes boys ever tried to climb the sturdy oaks that shadowed the road ahead. He wondered if they played hide-and-seek or tag until night fell, maybe even after. 

He pictured Sherlock scrambling up into the canopy of leaves as his brother searched the ground for him. _“Sherlock, that’s cheating!”_ He wondered if hoping for even that little happiness was twee of him. Sherlock wasn’t awake to answer and he didn’t want to wake him. Maybe sleeping was the most peace he’d get.

They all made it to Baker street without incident and as everyone was groggily preparing for bed Greg stepped out into the hall to order food. No one had eaten much. “Yeah, 221B...no problem. Thanks, you too.” He hung up. He stared. He sat down on the creaky wooden stairs. They were covered by an old carpet whose original pattern had been marred by years of footprints, it reminded him of the one in his ma's living room.

He took a deep breath and covered his face. His ma. 

His ma was a saint by all her children’s accounts, a stocky and eternally put-upon woman who’d raised her own four boys and two girls and half their cousins too. He’d seen her just a few months ago, stirring a large pot of something with her gray hair tied tightly in a bun at the nape of her neck. _“Your fuckin’ sister’s doin’ my head in. Yap yap yap! Ettehtuh! Enough! I swear you lot…”_ She loved to complain but there was always something kind in it, something warm.

He remembered being young and falling from the counter after trying to reach the cookie jar. She’d been at his side the second he screamed, his little brother bouncing on her hip and his older sister at her heels asking her if she could have a higher allowance. _“Are you dumb!? Didn't I tell you not to go up there!?”_ She yelled, shoving the baby in his sister’s arms before scooping him up into hers. He remembered that she was warm and soft and he knew immediately that he was safe. 

_“Worthless.”_

The word shot ice into his veins the same as when Mycroft had first said it in the garden, hidden behind bushes.“Every day I felt worthless.” Gregory saw dangling from the tree above the little boy he’d been, dapperly dressed with bandages wrapped around his hands. He had hollow eyes, blank, reflective the way they still got sometimes. 

“Sherlock was the only thing that mattered.” He and the boy said in unison. “Sherlock was the only thing that made my life worth living in her eyes. I used to think that was a compliment if you can believe it. It didn’t start off so horrible.” The boy was hanging by his legs, letting his arms dangle freely on either side of his head. 

“It started off with teaching me how to be a big brother. How to watch him, how to feed him, how to burp him. She told me it was a very important role, a duty that I was given because I was older and smarter. I was glad for the responsibility, I was glad to be close to her.” A soft chuckle. “Then it happened.”

Sherlock had been fussing. He was too big for Mycroft to carry comfortably but no one was around and he didn’t want to walk. “Up! Up!” He kept crying, jumping and grabbing his brother’s sweater. “Up!”  
“No.”  
The toddler’s face scrunched. “Up!” He jumped again, beginning to cry. “Up!”  
Mycroft noticed the edge of his foot beginning to slip and he reached for the banister, attempting to right himself. “Sherlock, please-”  
“Now!” 

Sherlock lunged forward, trying to crawl up into his brother’s arms and knocking the two of them backward. Mycroft could still remember the fear that filled his stomach, the kind of fear you couldn’t think through, it was something primal. _I’m going to die_ His entire being screamed before all he could feel was pain. 

He lost a tooth and consciousness in the fall. He woke up to his mother standing over him, holding a crying Sherlock in her arms. He fought against his own tears as the fear and adrenaline slowly seeped from him.  
“Mummy…”  
“You dropped him.” His eyebrows furrowed.  
“No, I didn’t.”  
“You did.” She said, voice calm and face impassive. “You dropped him.”

Mycroft blinked, too confused to answer. His vision swam. “Mummy I’m hurt.” He tried, closing his eyes again. His voice broke a bit and he coughed to cover it up. “It hurts.”

“How do you think your brother felt? He’s so much younger than you. It’s your job to protect him, I thought you understood that.”

“I tried but it was his fault, he-” And then he was being yanked up his wrist and dragged down the hall. Her grip was strong, he remembered that as a child it had felt inescapable. He’d asked her what she was doing, where she was going, what was happening but she didn’t turn to look at him. He wondered where his father was. Sherlock let out another cry.

They made their way into the bathroom and she forced Mycroft to kneel, wedged between the tub and the toilet. She set Sherlock on the ground outside and locked the door. Mycroft’s heart hammered. “I’m sorry.” He said, not knowing what he was apologizing for. “I’m sorry I don’t-”

“Stay still.” She turned on the faucet and grabbed his wrist again, pulling the other one tightly behind his back. Pain shot up his shoulder and he screamed. “Stay quiet.” But he couldn’t that first time, he was all fear and pain and hurt. He’d felt as if a strange creature had replaced his mother.

“Why did you do it?” She asked him, calm as ever. The water was becoming hotter and hotter and Mycroft began to struggle against her, realizing she wasn’t going to adjust the temperature.  
“I didn’t do anything!”  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
“I didn’t! It was Sherlock who-”  
“Are you going to blame your brother again? He’s only two years old.”  
“Mummy _please!”_ He begged, pulling with all his might. He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he’d been able to escape. Would she have chased him down and brought him back or let him go? Would she have tried again? Some nights he would curse himself for being so weak. Some nights he would remember he was only nine.

That first burn wasn’t the worst but it was the one that stayed with him.  
It was his first time experiencing it. He was out of his mind with fear, he felt betrayed, he was devastated. _Why?_ He kept thinking. _Why?_

He foolishly thought his mother had to be in there somewhere. Every time she’d take his hand out from under the water to ask him the same question he would try to explain, to reason with her, to get her to see his side to no avail. He remembered at one point wishing frantically for his real mother to burst into the room and save him from this demon who'd taken her form. 

Finally, as she sighed and brought his hand back to the water something in him snapped - or perhaps it all clicked into place. He was delirious with fear as he shouted; _“I did it, I did it, I’m sorry I dropped him! I was the one who dropped him, I'm so sorry mummy I’m so sorry please don’t- please I did it I’m sorry-”_ And she hugged him. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. His hands burned and both their hair was stuck to their faces from the heat.

“Oh my sweet little boy...that’s all you had to say, you see? You just have to tell the truth and I’ll forgive you.” She’d turned off the water and the room was deathly quiet without it. She sat him in her lap and treated his hands, kissing the palms when she was done. “Try to be a bit more careful next time.”

“I still don’t remember whether or not I really did drop him.” Mycroft had told Greg in the garden.  
“Even if you did that’s not-” He held up a hand.  
“I know.” He paused. “But it was all I had to hold onto as a child. My own guilt was the only way to make it bearable.” The boy in the tree fell to the ground, face blank as ever.

_If I didn’t do anything wrong why am I being punished?  
If she loves me just as much as Sherlock why doesn’t she hurt him?  
It’s not being hurt.  
It’s not.  
It’s teaching, I’m learning.  
Becoming stronger, more capable.  
It’s a responsibility, it’s not her fault if you fail.  
Stop blaming others for your own shortcomings.  
It’s your own fault.  
I’m scared, it hurts.  
It’s your own fault.  
She loves you more, she must love you so much._

“You ok?” Greg startled. John raised an eyebrow.  
“Christ, you scared the hell outta me!”  
“I came to look for you since you’ve been gone for ages.”  
“It’s been like five minutes.”  
“Twenty.” Greg laughed softly. John offered him a cigarette.

“I shouldn’t...ah, fuck it.” He sighed, taking one and placing it in his mouth. The lighter stuck a bit, it was old and it took six tries to get it to light. A perfectly awkward amount of time. 

“Rough day.” John said. Somewhere outside a group of children ran by, yelling and laughing. John got up and went to the window. Greg blew his smoke upwards, relaxing slightly.

“...How could she do that?” He said aloud, eyes closed. They stung and a lump formed in his throat. “How could she do that to her own kid? To _any_ kid?” John didn’t reply, watching the street below. It was dark and familiar, there was someone digging in the alley and a young girl across the street shouting down at a suitor to go away. 

“Did Sherlock tell you?” Silence. “Did he tell you what she _did_ to him?”  
“A bit. Not everything.” Greg laughed ruefully, anger radiating from him.

“He told me. It’s a good thing she’s dead or else I’d kill her myself.” His cigarette went out as a gust of wind blew through the stairway. He tried to light it again. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck _fucking goddamnit!”_ He shouted, throwing the lighter against the wall. It smashed into pieces on impact and John jumped.

“What the-!?” He spun around, ready to yell at the other man but paused when he saw him. He was slumped over, head buried in his hands as he sobbed. 

“I don’t know why I-” John sat down beside him and rubbed circles on his back. “It didn’t even happen to me it’s just-” John waited until he determined no continuation was imminent to continue.

“It hurts. You love him.”  
“I do.” Greg said, nodding. “I really do.”

Inside the apartment Sherlock dozes in his armchair, tea pressed into his hands by either John or his brother. Someone kisses his forehead. He opens his eyes a touch before closing them again. He dreams of Mycroft and his mother sitting in a room. They are joined together but it looks right and natural and that’s the worst thing about it, how effortless, how painless it looks for them. His eyebrows furrow.

Mycroft takes the tea from his brother and sets it in the sink. He returns to him at his whimper and takes his hand. It’s thin and bony. He needs to eat more. He thinks of Greg who’s gone out to order food and John who’s gone looking for them. Neither of them have returned. He’s about to go check on them when Sherlock speaks.

“M’sorry Mycie.” Anger spikes through him. He pauses. He grieves. He loves him.  
“I’m fine Sherl.” He whispers, squeezing his hand slightly. He's tired, he'd like to sleep too. “It’s okay.”

There’s a small crash outside of the apartment and Mycroft thinks uncharitably about the neighbourhood his brother lives in. John’s voice shouts. He’s slightly interested but not enough to move. 

Sherlock dreams about he and his brother in a car. He’s dreading arriving but the ride is peaceful. Mycroft is resting his head on the window and Sherlock reaches across to hold his hand but he can’t. He’s a child, his arms are too short. 

Mycroft opens the door when he hears crying and rushes up the stairs to Greg, asking him what’s wrong. John is calming the both of them. 

Sherlock dreams his parents are fighting. One of them is going to kill the other. He looks up at Mycroft and fears one day he’ll be gone too. He can see him in the bathroom now, all the way across the hall with the light on and the door open. He’s a crumpled heap on the tiled floor and blood trickles down as if on an incline. It’s almost reached Sherlock’s shoes. He can do nothing but watch.

Greg is brought inside and John goes downstairs to get the food. Mycroft tells him something placating. Greg begins to shout but remembers the sleeping detective. He wants for Mycroft to confide in him, to trust him. Mycroft is hungry, Gregory’s emotional outburst has made him feel guilty. 

John tells Mrs.Hudson all is well.  
Mycroft goes to the bathroom to stare at his reflection and Greg lies down on the couch.  
John comes back, they eat and all feel better for it.  
John sleeps in the living room with Sherlock.  
Greg and Mycroft take John’s room, Sherlock’s is too full of things.  
In the darkness they apologize and say there’s no need to.  
They hold hands, they close their eyes. They sleep.  
They will talk more in the morning.

John watches Sherlock as he falls asleep, the steady breathing lulling him. He’s happy that he can sleep. With his last bit of energy he whispers that he loves him. 

Sherlock dreams of he and Mycroft in his apartment. John and Greg are somewhere out of sight. He wants to talk to his brother but he can’t open his mouth. Mycroft is looking out the window. He sees a bird in a juniper tree. _“The scarf isn’t yours.”_ He says and Sherlock weeps with happiness. 

In the morning he wakes up to pancakes.


End file.
